Tokyo Love Letter - Hibiki (English)

A simple story...

For Tokyo, the city that forever lives in the writer's heart.

A city where magic, hope, and dream blend into one—

(This story is purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual names, events, or places is purely coincidental.)

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A chilly and sunny Friday in Tokyo.

Autumn leaves had begun to fall, covering the sidewalks of Aoyama in a quiet, golden layer that felt peaceful—at least for some. But not for Sakura (24), an office lady working at a trading company, and tonight, like many others, she had to give up some of her evening time for overtime with her division.

Most of her days were spent behind a desk, buried in numbers, reports, and looming deadlines. When the weekend finally came, her choices were painfully simple: either lock herself in her apartment to recharge, or—if she had any energy left—meet up with her two closest friends.

“I swear, after this we’re going drinking! I’ve had it with these damn files!” one of them blurted, triggering a chorus of laughter and cheers.

Sakura smiled faintly. She was never much of a drinker—the smell of sake alone could make her nauseous. But that night, she was too exhausted to refuse. She joined them anyway.

An hour later, they were squeezed into a small izakaya in Hamamatsucho. Laughter, curses, and jokes filled the air. Beer glasses clinked again and again. One of her friends poured her a glass of Sapporo Beer. She hesitated, then took a sip. One sip became two. Then three.

It didn’t take long for the alcohol to catch up—her head grew light, her words began to slur.

The night wore on. One by one, her coworkers said their goodbyes. Sakura stood up albeit unsteadily, politely refusing her friend’s offer to call a taxi.

“I’m fine… I can go on my own,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

She staggered toward the station, weaving between lamp post.

Along the way, she grumbled to herself—about work, her dead-end routine, and a string of failed relationships: lied to, cheated on, ghosted without explanation. That night, everything came pouring out. She didn’t care that strangers might be watching from a distance.

Her steps grew wobbly. Her balance faltered. Finally, she collapsed at the edge of the sidewalk and throw up.

Ashamed, angry, and overwhelmed, Sakura quietly sobbed—her shoulders trembling under the weight of it all.

Then, a voice—gentle but unfamiliar—reached her.

“Daijoubu desu ka? (Are you okay?)”

It was a man, speaking Japanese in a clumsy, hesitant tone. He extended a tissue toward her.

Sakura looked up, took the tissue, and wiped her face. Without thinking—whether from the alcohol or the flood of emotions—she clutched the man and held him tightly.

“Don’t go…” she whispered, like a lost child clinging to something warm.

The man froze, confused. He said something in a language she didn’t understand—not Japanese, not English. But Sakura didn’t care. That night, she just need someone—anyone—to stay, even for a little while.

And in that unexpected embrace, she drifted off… wrapped in a warmth far kinder than the loneliness she was used to falling asleep with.

***

Morning.

Sakura slowly opened her eyes to the feel of soft blankets, a plush pillow, and a bed—one far more comfortable than the one in her apartment.

She almost let herself enjoy it… until her mind jolted awake.

“Where… am I!?”

She quickly sit up, panicked, looking at the surrounding. This isn’t her place. This is a hotel. But which one? Who brought her here?

She immediately checked herself. Clothes—intact. Only her shoes had been removed and neatly placed by the bed.

Trying to recall the night before, she remembered drinking in Hamamatsucho with coworkers. Could one of them have brought her here?

Her eyes landed on her phone, being charged on the small table. Beside it—a convenience store onigiri, a bottle of ocha, and a small bottle of mineral water.

She reads the clock, 7:15 a.m.

She heard the sound of running water from the bathroom.

She grabbed her phone and opened the front camera. Her face—an absolute mess. Hair disheveled, eyes swollen. Just as she reached to fix herself, someone stepped out from the bathroom.

Not her coworker. A stranger. A man.

At least the man is dresses in a white shirt and wearing black pants, nothing seems out of place.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said, his Japanese stiff and heavily accented.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” he added, this time piecing together a few words in English.

“You threw up near Hamamatsucho Station… the alcohol smell was... intense. Then you hugged me tightly and wouldn’t let go, no matter how hard I tried. I had no choice… so I brought you here.”

He even showed her a translated message on his phone, typed out to help her understand.

Sakura sat there, slowly processing.

“Where is this?” she finally asked.

“The Royal Park Hotel, Shiodome,” he replied.

“I got you some onigiri and tea from the konbini. There’s water too, if you want it.”

Despite her pounding head, Sakura started to relax. Who is this man?

“Who are you?” she asked softly.

“Just someone who happened to be walking around Hamamatsucho last night,” he said, with a faint smile.

“Your name?”

“Heri,” he replied. An unfamiliar name to her—not Japanese, not Western. “Heri Prasetyo. Just call me Heri.”

“Where are you from?”

“Indonesia,” he said, reaching for something hanging nearby.

A uniform. There were two epaulettes on the shoulders. A name badge. A winged pin.

Sakura stared at him.

“You’re… a pilot?”

“Yeah. And this morning, I have a flight back to Indonesia from Haneda. You should head home, take the onigiri and the drinks with you. Your face—well, you look pretty rough. Wash up first, okay?” Heri said gently, in broken but sincere Japanese.

Sakura nodded and made her way to the bathroom. Inside, there is a clean toothbrush in a sealed package. After washing up, she returned to find Heri patting his own back.

“I slept on the sofa last night,” he said.

“I didn’t feel right making you sleep there while I took the bed.”

Sakura stood there silently. A small sense of relief warmed her chest. She smiled.

“Heri-san… I wanted to thank you,” she said.

“Just go home,” he replied softly.

“No, I mean… I really want to thank you.”

Sakura looked unsure of herself. What could she offer someone who helped her… and would be flying off soon?

“Can I… ask for your contact? I*******m, or anything? If you ever come back to Tokyo, I’d love to treat you to dinner—just to say thank you.”

Heri paused, then nodded.

“Sure. I’ve got LINE too. I want to make more Japanese friends, to practice the language.”

They exchanged contacts—LINE, I*******m, even X. Somehow, their conversation suddenly felt more relaxed.

Sakura bowed as she prepared to leave.

“Thank you… really.”

“Take care,” Heri replied.

She stepped out of the hotel with a swirl of emotions. Confusion, anxiety, leftover exhaustion from last night… but under it all—something unfamiliar had started to bloom.

Something warm. Something she couldn’t yet define.

Whatever it was, that morning, she made her way back to her apartment in Yoyogi… her steps a little lighter than usual.

Once home, Sakura collapsed onto her bed. The fatigue, confusion, and tangled emotions from the night before still clung to her like mist on a windowpane. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to find stillness.

Later, she took a warm shower, letting the water wash away what felt like a surreal dream.

She changed into a loose T-shirt and shorts, then sat at her small dining table. The onigiri Heri had bought was still there—cold now, but oddly comforting.

As she ate, she checked her LINE. Messages from coworkers had come in, asking if she got home safe. She replied briefly,

“I did. Last night.”

No further explanation. She wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

She scrolled through her phone. TikTok. X. I*******m. Killing time, mindlessly browsing.

And then…

A Story appeared at the top of her I*******m feed.

Heri.

Her fingers hesitated. But curiosity won. She tapped it.

A selfie from inside the cockpit. Heri was smiling, seated on the right. Next to him, an older man in a captain’s uniform. Behind them, two cabin crew—one male, one female—posing with bright smiles.

The caption read:

Merak 875 service to Jakarta ✈️

Sakura froze. Her finger hovered over the reply box… but she backed out.

Would it be too forward to respond?

She exhaled, closed the app, and set down her phone.

And then followed by silence.

The midday breeze slipped through the slightly open window, swaying the sheer curtains. In that stillness, Sakura looked up at the clear Tokyo sky.

Indonesia…

There was no answer. But for the first time in a long while, the question itself felt… exciting.